The same coffee

Stepping through the sun to find sleep in the rain, as well as eighty-decade-old music, as well as western-style cafes, girls who have a heavy heart of love. Sit here and quietly leave for five months to blur. Sometimes holding a book about the old stuff, or something with a new skill book, drop dead soul into love, flashed through the rain on the door of a day soon. Then, every Sunday afternoon free, you look at the cigarette people put on his heart also crave to try a cigarette smoke, just think of the smoke flying out of the mouth rolling away the old faith. Those who sit in the city in the afternoon, the same coffee as bitter brother, waiting for him to return. And who is jealous, who waits for anyone, who wear no one will not return. But stupid, immersed in the waiter waiting to burn yellow leaves with sunshine this afternoon, my heart too numb.